


Tips for the Aspiring Businesswoman

by Prochytes



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Sarah Jane Adventures, Torchwood
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day’s visit to London yields much financial advice for Gwen. And several bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tips for the Aspiring Businesswoman

**Author's Note:**

> Small spoilers for TW to the end of S3 and SJA 4x06 “Death of the Doctor”; spoilers for DW “Planet of the Dead”. Originally posted on LJ in 2011.

Morning

 

“Pension plans,” said Gita Chandra, sagely. “These must be central to the thinking of any small businesswoman in today’s financial climate. Are you self-employed, too?”

 

Gwen sat back on their bench, and looked out over the Serpentine. “Pretty much. My husband and I live on a little farm near the coast.”

 

“But I do not think you have been farming all your life.”

 

“No. Originally I was a civil servant. Then I was an uncivil servant. Then I was... laid off.”

 

“Let me guess. You found that your public-sector pension had gone up in smoke. The Government stitched you up big-time. Am I right?”

 

“Yes,” Gwen said evenly, as she inspected the water quality of the pond. Still viscid with a hint of blasphemous, but better than a couple of minutes before. “I would definitely have to agree that that was the case.”

 

“This is what makes putting a bit aside for the future so important. Do you have children?”

 

“One. A little girl.” The Serpentine belched sebaceously. The stench was passing, but Gwen thought that it still smelt like someone had opened a used sock emporium in a condemned abattoir. _By Their smell can men sometimes know Them near_ , and all that.

 

“Well, take it from me.” Gita leaned forward. “The years fly by. One minute, your daughter is knee-high to a grasshopper; the next, she is dashing around on legs the length of the M1, saying that she will save the world with investigative journalism.”

 

“I think I could live with that, to be honest. World-savers don’t grow on trees. You never really know when you might run out.”

 

Haresh always accused his wife of not letting anyone else get a word in edgeways. But this did not mean she was oblivious to the tone of what did slip through the conversational cracks. Gita inspected Gwen’s carefully calm face, and changed the subject.

 

“Well, that was quite a palaver just now, wasn’t it? What do you think it was?”

 

“Mmmm? Oh, an octopus. Definitely an octopus. Had to be, what with all those tentacles and gubbins. People flush them down toilets when they’re babies, you see. They can get proper gigantic once they hit the sewers.”

 

“Are you sure?” Gita sounded sceptical. “It almost looked as though it had arms and legs.”

 

“Oestrogen. In the water table. From all the Londoners on the Pill. Makes the squigglies in the sewers mutate like no one’s business. Straight up. Got a mate in Sanitation who told me.”

 

“Right.” Gita’s expression was unconvinced. “Good luck for us that you happened to have that gun, then.”

 

“Yes. Um. Farming can be a cutthroat business, Gita. I’m sure that floristry’s just the same.”

 

“I see. What about the _other_ gun?”

 

“Two-for-one deal at the shop. They’re feeling the pinch of recession just like the rest of us.”

 

“And the anti-matter grenade?”

 

“Ah. Er. Do you mean that firework I was fortuitously carrying?”

 

“I’m fairly certain it was an anti-matter grenade.”

 

“Right. How, if you don’t mind my asking, do you know that?”

 

Gita squeezed Gwen’s knee. “A florist is wise in many things. Also, the fact that you shouted ‘LET’S SEE HOW SERENE AND PRIMAL YOU WALK WITH AN ANTI-MATTER GRENADE RAMMED DOWN YOUR KISSER’ was a bit of a give-away.”

 

“Oh.” Gwen gazed dolefully at an empty pillbox in her hand, before stowing it away in a pocket. “I’m afraid I’ve let myself get rather out of practice.”

 

“Never mind.” Gita nudged Gwen in the ribs.“No secrets between friends, eh, Mrs Pallister?”

 

“No secrets at all, Gita. And do please call me ‘Yvonne’.”

 

Afternoon

 

“... So, you’d think that running a charity would mean less eye-strain with the admin. That’s a laugh. I tell you: the extent of _de minimis_ tolerance in the 1993 Charities Act does my bleeding head in.”

 

“I’m sure it does.” Gwen watched the CEO of A Charitable Earth rootle through her backpack. “I’m impressed by your grip on the minutiae, Ms McShane.”

 

“‘Ace’ to you.” She grimaced. “Seeing as we’ve got so comfy.”

 

Gwen nodded. Ace was a short, lithe woman, but there wasn’t much room for both of them under her desk. “Like I said, though, I’m impressed. I had you pegged as more one for the broad strokes than the detail.”

 

Ace sucked her teeth. “Call it a legacy from when I was a teenager. There was this old geezer I travelled with back then, you see. He was the Devil for the details.” She looked pensive for a moment. “Or maybe just the Devil. Never really made up my mind on that. Would you take a butcher’s over the desk, and tell me how far away they’re standing?”

 

Gwen held up a pocket mirror. Three vaguely anthropomorphic shadow-shapes presented themselves to her view. They were clustered in what Gwen assumed was the PA’s part of the office, next to a poster of a cross-eyed kitten falling off a twig. “About twenty feet. What are they, exactly? They don’t look like they came from the Charity Commission.”

 

“The Shades of Fenric.” Ace continued to rummage. Gwen could hear a sloshing in the backpack. “Summoned from the Halls of the Howling to piss in my kettle. Their boss and I go back – and forward – a long way.”

 

“Why aren’t they advancing? They know we’re here.”

 

“Fenric likes to play the long game.”

 

“So what are you planning to do?”

 

Ace hefted a metal flask, and grinned. “Shorten it. Stay down.” She scrambled to her feet. “Oi! Mush!”

 

Gwen heard a thump, and felt a wave of heat wash over her. Ace hunkered down again, as the sprinkler activated. “All clear. I’ll apologize to Steve for what I did to his desk when he gets back from his lunch-break. But I’ve told him twenty times to ditch that poster.”

 

Gwen peeked cautiously above the lip of the desk. Her eyes widened. “And that was...?”

 

Ace beamed. “Nitro 14-A. It’s easy to let your work devour your life when you’re self-employed, Yvonne. But you’ve got to leave a little time for your hobbies. Not bad, eh?”

 

“Wicked,” said Gwen.

 

Evening

 

“... which is why I cannot recommend too highly the virtues of hiring one’s own accountant.” Christina de Souza tossed her hair back from her face. It was more than a little blowy at the moment, and her hands were full. “Such a blessing to the independent businesswoman. If Daddy had forked out for one instead of trying to handle the Estate’s finances by himself, I wouldn’t be in the trade I am today. It’s all about leveraging debt, you know.”

 

“Leverage,” Gwen said, through gritted teeth. “I could certainly use... some of that right now.”

 

“Some people will tell you that a Swiss bank account is enough. Not so, by a long chalk. The Gnomes of Zürich will have their pound of flesh.”

 

Gwen thought that this was probably right. The Gnomes of Zürich were vicious little bastards, in her experience. She still shuddered at the memory of cleaning out a nest of them as a favour for the Swiss Government, to make up for that cycling trip round the Large Hadron Collider.

 

“Also, an accountant of the right leanings can be particularly helpful if one’s financial transactions tend towards the... unorthodox. Don’t get me wrong, black and red are classic colours, as elegant on a balance-sheet as they are in the wardrobe of an unexpected sparring partner – they look great on you, by the way...”

 

“Thank you,” Gwen gasped, as she tried, and failed, to hook Christina’s ankle. “Your cat-suit is very nice, as well.”

 

“.... but those of us who have to do our accounting in inks of a different hue can always use a helping hand. I’m sure you know what I mean.... I’m sorry, what did you say your name was, again?”

 

“Yvonne.” Gwen struggled to break Christina’s grip on her neck. Matching upper body strength with a statuesque second-storey girl wasn’t, she reflected, the dumbest idea she had ever entertained, but that was only because “fighting Ice Warriors by hitting Frequency Seven on a mouth-organ” took an awful lot of beating. “Yvonne Pallister. And I’m nothing special. Just a concerned citizen, in town to make a charitable donation.”

 

One of the many drawbacks to being on the wrong end of this particular head-lock and arm hyper-extension combo was that you couldn’t really see your opponent’s face. But Gwen had no doubt that Christina was rolling her eyes. “Really. Well, pardon my bluntness, Yvonne, but, to my way of thinking, there are ‘concerned’ citizens, and then there are citizens that jump off roofs to rugby-tackle a glamorous jewel-thief as she effects an elegant escape in her flying bus.”

 

“‘Glamorous’, eh.” Maybe she could find a way to use Christina’s weight advantage against her. The bus was bucking like no one’s business; Gwen suspected that the auto-pilot Christina had slammed on as the melee started hadn’t been designed for a double-decker. London lurched below its yawning doors. “Not exactly one to hide your light under a bushel, are you, your Ladyship?”

 

“Not my fault, guv. ‘Glamorous’ goes with ‘jewel-thief’ like ‘disgraced’ goes with ‘former Cabinet Minister’. You don’t really find non-glamorous jewel-thieves, except poor Gaspard in Lyons, and I’m sure his impetigo will clear up eventually.” Christina applied more pressure to the lock, and smiled as Gwen almost buckled to one knee. “But we’re straying from the point, here. What exactly did you mean to achieve by this exercise, Yvonne?”

 

“Bring back Sir Ranulf Fitzwilliam’s Emerald. And take you in.”

 

“And on what authority,” Christina asked sweetly, “would you be doing that? You’re not a policewoman anymore, I think, even if that plebeian arm-lock you kicked off with had dowdy Fuzz adhering all over it.”

 

“Ah. Er. Citizen’s arrest?”

 

“This is the thing, Yvonne. For a retiring private citizen, you do seem to have a knack for putting yourself in trouble’s way.”

 

“There may,” Gwen admitted, “be a little truth in that.”

 

“Glad I could provide illumination. Now: just admit that I’ve got you licked, and I’ll set you down wherever in the Capital you want.”

 

“I don’t know what it means to be licked,” said Gwen, defiantly. “Um, except in a recreational capacity.”

 

“Well, I’m afr....”

 

The bus veered sharply. Gwen hoped that it had not been playing chicken with Lord Nelson. As Christina momentarily lost her footing, Gwen managed to slam her against a pole, breaking her grip, and unloaded an elbow smash into her midriff.  A London bus really didn’t give you room to swing a cat burglar, but at least they hadn’t been grappling on a Boris Bike.

 

The two combatants eyed each other warily. Christina glanced out of the windscreen, and sighed. “From ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged PCs, Good Lord deliver us. It’s been frightfully jolly meeting you, Yvonne. Do you know how to swim?”

 

Gwen frowned. “What? I...”

 

Christina, it transpired, talked like a thorough-bred, but kicked like a mule. Gwen was able, just about, to block the strike, but the impact still carried her out of the bus’s doors. For a sickening moment, she thought that she had (a) fatally misjudged the jewel-thief’s personality and was therefore (b) about to have a postcode instead of an epitaph. Then she realized that the bus had actually been skimming, low and somewhat sedately, over (wouldn’t you know it?) the Serpentine.

 

By the time Gwen squelched to the shore, feeling like the cheapest Pantene ad in the history of the world and hoping there wasn’t any left-over exploded eldritch in her hair (that not being dead which can eternal lie, and so on), she found a neatly-folded towel and a note waiting for her.

 

“That’s my accountant’s number.” Christina had parked the bus about thirty feet in the air, and was sitting, legs dangling into the void, at the driver’s-side doors. “Never let it be said I’m ungracious in victory.”

 

“More of a score-draw, I’d say.” Gwen raised her hand. Even the fading light disclosed to Christina the viridian sparkle of what she was holding. “I lifted this from your utility belt while we were wrestling. You’re bloody good, Christina. But I was trained by someone who shagged Raffles.”

 

Christina smiled ruefully. “Well-played, probably-not-Yvonne definitely-not-Pallister. Well-played, indeed. The Blue Carbuncle is on exhibit in Cardiff, come November. I don’t suppose I could tempt you to a rematch?”

 

FINIS


End file.
